“But are you sure, quite sure, that he is not dead? He is not breathing.”
“Of course not. The simulation is perfect. Place your hand on his wrist—you will detect no pulse. Turn his pupils to the light—you see, they do not contract. The case would deceive a whole college of physicians.”
As he spoke, he suited the action to the word—placed his finger upon the pulse, gazed at the glazing pupils; raised one of the lifeless arms, which, on being released, fell heavily as lead.
“Horrible, horrible! For God’s sake, recover him!”
“All in good time. He has only been dead a quarter of an hour; in half an hour precisely I shall say, ‘Arise and walk.’ Feel his forehead, Nell; it is as cold as marble.”
But Ellen drew back, shuddering, and could not be persuaded to touch the sleeper.
“Well, go back to your promenade. I will call you when he is awakened.” Sick and terrified, Ellen obeyed her husband. Standing on the terrace, she waited for his summons; and at last it came. Haldane appeared, and beckoned; she followed him to the laboratory, and there, seated in an armchair, comfortably sipping a glass of wine, was the Spaniard—a little pale still, but otherwise not the worse for his state of coma.
“Thank God!” cried Ellen.
“I thought he would never recover. But it must have been a horrible experience.”
Baptisto smiled.